Title: The Biscuit TinRating: PGWords: ~500Characters/Pairing: Beatrice, Peter/OMC mentionedSummary: Beatrice decides to find Peter a love interest, but she's barking up the wrong tree.Disclaimer: Not my property. Just borrowing for entertainment.Notes: This was originally a comment-fic I wrote for monisharobot with the prompt "Peter gets a boyfriend," but it was brought to my attention that it might be relevant to this community's interests. It was written one or two episodes into S3, so nothing after that is taken into account. There's not really much to it.

The Biscuit Tin

Beatrice continues to take it extremely personally that Peter would not find her a nice soldier to take to bed. It's the story of her life, isn't it, 'no, you can't, Beatrice,' and 'soldiers are not material objects, Beatrice.'

The problem, she decides, is that Peter has not had a good hard shag since probably sometime during the Thatcher government and has forgotten what it's like to enjoy himself. Not that she wants to think of her brother enjoying himself, but she's very good at not-thinking about things, even while causing them.

Except causing them turns out to be harder than she thought.

"What do you think you're doing?" Gloria asks as the third woman Beatrice has paraded in here leaves without Peter ever having registered that she's got tits.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm--"

Peter comes out of his office, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's very sweet of you, Beatrice, to try to find a date for Lyle, but I do wish you wouldn't send them round during working hours with flimsy cases. I'd like to get some use out of my junior partner, hmm?"

Petra starts screeching-- that's my girl!-- and Beatrice legs it.

Peter had a point, Beatrice thinks-- the young, fit women really were more Lyle's type. The shagging-over-the-desk type. Peter's more the dinner-and-a-show type. If he is a type, or has one. Simon would have known. Maybe.

She thinks she remembers something about a Leslie or a Laura in the Cambridge days. Not from Peter, of course. From overhearing Simon. Beatrice hauls Petra into the attic along with her and starts digging. There's nothing actually useful, just stupid hats and old essays scrawled over with just-short-of-glowing remarks.

Then it does get interesting, all in very quick succession. Beatrice finds a biscuit tin wrapped in a blue jumper. Petra begins to cry, startling Beatrice into dropping it. The tin crashes to the floor, spilling out letters and seashells and a photo of the jumper's owner, a smirking man with eyes the same colour. Beatrice registers what it is about the time Peter thuds in with a cut off, "Beatrice, what--"

They stare at each other across it. Peter doesn't look angry, at least. Petra's still wailing. Beatrice picks her up and rocks her and she keeps wailing. The wailing is different than the screeching. Screeching is for attention; wailing is for some need or other, but aside from when nappies need changing Beatrice hasn't worked out what wail is for what. "What happened to him?" she asked. He must have died horribly and tragically, in the Falklands, maybe, or a car crash. A boating accident?